Chapter 3:
With a gasp, Dave opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming through his window. His sister stood at the door, arms crossed, scowling.
"Dave! You almost slept through lunch. Mom said if you don't get up now, she'll drag you out herself."
Her sharp tone tugged him fully back into the waking world. The forest, the bracelet, the sorcerer, they all dissolved into smoke in his mind. But one truth remained undeniable. Around his neck, warm against his skin, Orla remained.
He swallowed hard, his hand instinctively clutching the necklace. Its faint hum vibrated through his palm, as if reminding him it wasn't just a dream.
"I'm coming," Dave muttered, rubbing his eyes.
His sister rolled her eyes. "You've been acting weird lately. Don't come crying to me if you lose your mind." With that, she slammed the door shut, leaving him alone with his pounding heart.
Dave sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. "It's real," he whispered to himself. "It's all real."
He wanted to deny it, bury it as nothing more than the residue of an overactive imagination. But Orla's weight pressed against his chest like an anchor, defying denial.
Lunch passed in a blur. His parents chatted about neighbors and errands, while his sister complained about her upcoming school project. Dave nodded at the right times, but his mind was elsewhere. Each time his fork scraped against the plate, the metallic sound seemed to ripple, echoing with the same cadence as the sorcerer's voice.
Child of two worlds…
The words haunted him.
When lunch was done, Dave excused himself and returned to his room. He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily, Orla's glow tugging at the corners of his vision. Every so often, he thought he saw faint patterns; symbols etched into the ceiling above him, only to vanish when he blinked.
Was he losing his grip on reality? Or was reality losing its grip on him?
By the time Sunday rolled around, the weight of sleepless nights clung to him. His sister noticed.
"Bro, you look like a zombie," She said, sliding into the desk beside him.
"I'm fine," Dave muttered, scribbling notes.
Except they weren't notes. His pen moved on its own, sketching spirals, runes, and shapes he didn't recognize. When She leaned over to peek, his brow furrowed.
"What's this supposed to be? Geometry homework?"
Dave stared at the page. None of it made sense, yet something deep inside whispered that it did. He slammed the notebook shut. "Just doodles."
She didn't look convinced. "You've been wired all week, man. If you're hiding something, at least tell me you're not into cults now."
Dave forced a laugh, but it came out hollow. "Relax."
But inside, fear gnawed at him.
That evening, after dinner, Dave decided to clear his head. He wandered the city streets, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange. Neon lights flickered to life one by one, buzzing faintly.
For a while, the hum of life around him drowned out his thoughts. Cars honked, vendors shouted, and the smell of roasted corn filled the air. Normalcy. Safe, boring normalcy.
Until he caught his reflection in a shop window.
At first, it was just him, tired eyes, messy hair, hoodie pulled tight against the evening chill. But then, behind his reflection, shadows twisted. A pair of glowing eyes blinked in the darkness.
He stumbled back, heart racing. When he looked again, it was gone.
Orla burned against his chest.
By the time he got home, he was drenched in sweat. He rushed upstairs, locked his door, and ripped the necklace off, throwing it onto the desk.
"Leave me alone," he whispered. "Just leave me alone."
But the room pulsed. The lightbulb above flickered. His computer screen glitched even though it was off, faint lines of green code dripping across the black screen like falling rain.
He froze. The air thickened.
And then he heard it again, whispered, persistent, curling around him like smoke.
Erim Afoo.
He spun around. Nothing.
His chest heaved. "It's not real."
But Orla lay on the desk, glowing softly, stubbornly real.
Later that night, sleep found him again despite his resistance.
And with it, the other world.
He stood once more in the vast plain where stars refused to shine. The hut loomed ahead, its doorway gaping like the maw of a beast.
This time, Dave didn't hesitate. He walked toward it, his footsteps echoing unnaturally loud. The air carried the scent of damp earth and smoke, and in the distance, drums pounded in slow rhythm, like a heartbeat.
Inside the hut, shadows danced against the clay walls. The old woman was gone. Instead, he found a circle of figures cloaked in black, their faces hidden. They chanted words in the same twisted tongue that haunted his dreams.
"Erim Afoo… Erim Afoo…"
At the center of the circle, a fire burned—not with flames, but with liquid light that writhed and twisted like serpents. The heat licked his skin, though no smoke rose.
Then the chanting stopped.
All heads turned toward him.
"Child of two worlds," a voice boomed—not Igwe-ka-Ala's, but deeper, colder. "You carry Orla. Do you understand what it means?"
Dave's mouth went dry. "No… I don't."
The fire roared higher, casting shadows that clawed at the walls.
"Then you will learn."
The ground cracked open beneath his feet, and hands, hundreds of them, skeletal and desperate, shot up to grab him. They pulled, dragging him toward the light, toward the fire that wasn't fire.
He screamed, struggling, but Orla blazed against his chest, brighter and brighter until everything dissolved into blinding white.
And he woke.
Again.
His sister stood at the door, rubbing her eyes. "Seriously? You were yelling in your sleep. You're gonna wake the whole house."
Dave sat up, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around him. He clutched Orla, its glow now faint but steady, he felt safe with the touch.
"I… I'm fine," he lied.
But he wasn't.
Because in the back of his mind, the whisper lingered.
Erim Afoo.
And this time, it didn't feel like just a dream.